They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. She said as much to him. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. I will not trust you.
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